


The Exact Manner of Your Demise

by TheNavelTreatment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Case Fic, Ghosts, John is surprisingly understanding, M/M, Magical Realism, Sherlock Holmes can talk to ghosts, brief mentions of drug abuse, brief mentions of violence, this timeline is all sorts of messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNavelTreatment/pseuds/TheNavelTreatment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though Sherlock never doubted his ability to figure out his cases on his own, he had to admit that being able to commune with the victims gave him a leg up as a consulting detective.  It was much easier to catch a murderer when you had a first-hand perspective on their crime.</p><p>Written for the letswritesherlock Challenge 11:  Create a story in a fantastical alternate universe using the following prompt: “The dead body was the least of their worries.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Exact Manner of Your Demise

The dead body was the least of their worries. The spirit of the girl hovering over her prior form screaming in anguish was of much more pressing concern.  John stared unhearing at the body while Sherlock slowly stepped toward her saying, "Please calm down, and describe for me the exact manner of your demise."

 

\---

 

Even though Sherlock never doubted his ability to figure out his cases on his own, he had to admit that being able to commune with the victims gave him a leg up as a consulting detective.  It was much easier to catch a murderer when you had a first-hand perspective on their crime.

 

\---

 

Sherlock realized he could "see dead people" (what a ridiculous movie) when he was 7 years old.  His new friend Victor wandered into the gardens one day and spent hours playing with him.  No other children Sherlock had ever met showed that much interest.  They stayed out for hours, and Sherlock hardly noticed Mycroft, Mummy, and Daddy watching them in turn.  Finally, Mycroft strode out to where they were in the midst of hide-and-seek and demanded, "Sherlock, who are you talking to?"

"Victor! But he's my new friend not yours Mycroft, so don't even try."

"Sherlock, there's no one out here."

"Yes he is, he's just hiding, it's his turn to hide. Victor, come out here and say hello to my horrid brother. Victor! Victor!?"

Sherlock never saw Victor again.  

 

\---

After dinner that night, Sherlock overheard his parents talking when they thought he'd gone to bed. "Does Sherlock have another imaginary friend? He was outside all day talking to himself."

His father sighed, "Yes I hope he's almost through this phase. God knows he's odd enough. I thought we'd gotten over the impulse to conjure invisible playmates. He called this one Victor."

"Victor?" His mother looked up, "Isn't Victor the name of one of Mr. Trevor's sons? The one who just died from pneumonia?"

"Hmmm, yes, I think so." His father had turned back to the evening newspaper. "What a strange coincidence."

 

\---

 

In time, Sherlock could tell right away whether the children he met were alive or dead. The dead ones were always nice to him.

 

\---

 

Ghosts looked nothing like the way Hollywood portrayed them.  Sherlock snorted at the ridiculousness of the characterization. There were no sheets. They could not walk through walls. They weren't glowing, oozing, clanking, or moaning. They did not turn up in the middle of the night covered in chains trying to convince you to live a better life. For the most part, they weren't even see-through, unless they had been stuck on earth for a good long while.  They only floated immediately after having left their previous bodies, and after that they were stuck walking the earth like everyone else.  Sherlock could feel them, touch them, hug them - interact with them in much the same way as ordinary people (except better because ordinary people were boring). Sometimes, if he was concentrating very hard, he could see their edges flicker, but it was always a fleeting occurrence. Ghosts really were just like everybody else.

After he got kicked out of his third theater for calling _Casper_ a fraud, Sherlock decided to keep his opinions on the movie industry to himself.

 

\---

 

It took some time, but by the age of 10 Sherlock realized that his ability was a singular gift. It was his and his alone; even ghosts weren't aware of other spirits in the vicinity. It was like having a world all his own, one far superior to the one inhabited by his parents, brother, and classmates.  While he got better at hiding his Sight, he still chose to indulge in it more often than not. His detachment was viewed as arrogance by other children, and words like  _loner_  and  _weirdo_  and  _freak_  followed him when he was forced to interact with them.

His parents showed their concern by hauling him off to various doctors and facilities, especially after he once made the mistake of trying to explain to them what he saw. Names followed him there to; names like  _anti-social_  and  _disturbed_ and  _sociopath_. 

 

\---

 

While he was at University, Sherlock had a long talk with a very old man (who had been killed by his neighbor over a minor land dispute). "Why are you still here? Why would you choose to stay on this stupid planet when there's nothing tying you down anymore?"

The old man sighed, "It's like this. Not everyone who dies does so peacefully. Sometimes they have unfinished business. Sometimes there's something they have to do. Sometimes there's someone out there who needs help. The moment you die you know."

'What happens after," asked Sherlock. "After you accomplish whatever it is you're supposed to accomplish."

The old man smiled, "I'll let you know."

 

\---

 

Sometimes the burden of seeing people who weren't there and trying to convince the people who were that he wasn't crazy became too much for Sherlock.  He found that illegal substances were wonderful at suppressing communication from the spirit world.

 

\---

 

University seemed pointless to Sherlock. There was nothing in all the pages or in all the lectures that told him what to spend his life doing, what he could possible do that wouldn't bore him to death (he chuckled at that).  Plus what good was having a secret ability if you couldn't use it to show off, somehow?!  Communing with the dead hardly seemed like a leg up in the financial world his brother was hoping to push him into.  

One day while he was walking back to his flat, he saw two police officers standing next to a cordoned-off crime scene shaking their heads.  Behind the tape was a young man in a postman's uniform with what looked like a very fancy letter opener sticking out of his chest. There was forgotten postage scattered around him and a piece of paper pasted with cut-out letters spelling the message, "This time I did kill the messenger" lying across his stomach.  The policemen spoke in somber voices.

"Who would do this?," said one, grimacing. "What a way to go."

"I know," agreed the other.  "The poor guy probably delivers hundreds of correspondence everyday that could make someone want to kill him.  I doubt it's random, but the crime scene was so well wiped down we have nothing to go on. Too bad he can't tell us what his last moments looked like."

Across from Sherlock, just inside the crime scene tape, the young man in question looked on as they discussed the impossibility of his case. He had a somber look on his face, but as his eyes wandered and found Sherlock, it was replaced by a smirk. Understanding dawned, and Sherlock realized maybe his future wouldn't be so dreadful after all.

It didn't matter to Sherlock that he knew the answer going in. The game was in trying to find ways to support his claim with tangible evidence. Ghosts weren't yet allowed to testify in Court.

 

\---

 

Sherlock supposed his experience with spirits should make him believe in some sort of high-power. But it had the opposite effect; he couldn't envision a God who would be so cruel as to trap people as shadows in a world where they had once been alive.

 

\---

 

Sherlock got quite good at finding concrete evidence to support the conclusions the ghosts brought him.  But he was not good at interacting with the police themselves, or really anyone else living for that matter; he just couldn't stoop to their limited plane of existence. He once again found himself on the receiving end of insults. He never thought  _freak_ would hurt more as an adult than as a child, but as it turns out, it did. He got used to minimal human interaction. 

Sherlock was complaining to Mike Stamford one morning about what a difficult man he was to live with, work with, anything. Later that day, when John Watson walked in, he was an answer to a prayer Sherlock didn't even know he was making (maybe he was wrong on the God front).  He stood straight under Sherlock's scrutiny about his military service (Afghanistan or Iraq) and didn't tell him to piss off as Sherlock unravelled the rest of his existence. His face was so wide open, his eyes so soft and accepting, that Sherlock took the chance and spilled his secret outright (Sometimes I don't talk for days on end and I can communicate with the ghosts of people who have died, does that bother you)? John, though apprehensive, didn't run away outright. The universe converged so that the ghost of John's childhood best friend who died in a car accident while he was in the army walked in. He told Sherlock stories of their boyhood adventures no one else would know, and after a few dumbstruck moments, Sherlock felt John's skepticism ebb and fall away.  Within 24 hours they were installed in 221B together.

 

\---

 

While John was in the flat getting settled, Mrs. Hudson stops Sherlock while he was on his way out to buy nicotine patches. "Sherlock Holmes, I hope you know what you're doing," she patted his arm with her concerned-mum face on. She had seen him at his worst, after all.

"Don't worry Mrs. Hudson, now that John Watson is here, I think things are starting to look up." Even though she gives him a small smile, he can still see the worry on her face."

 

\---

 

A month after John and Sherlock move in together, Jeff Hope begins committing serial suicides. After conversing with two of the victims, Sherlock knows they're murders, not suicides. Over the Pink Lady's case Sherlock and John have a conversation about how to bring him in.

"There's nothing for it. I'll set myself up as a target. He think's he's a genius, smarter than me, and he won't be able to resist. John, text this number--"

"No." John flat out refuses. "This is a horrible idea Sherlock. If you put yourself in that situation, you'll take the damn pill. I know you. You risk your life to prove your clever."

"No, I don't John, I'm not an idiot. Besides, I'd beat him anyway."

"Maybe it's worth the risk to you, but not to me." John looks down at his lap and the fingers of his left hand clenched in to a fist, the only indicator of how upset he was. "I'm not like you, Sherlock. If you die I'll never see you again."

Sherlock faces off with Jeff Hope in the bowels of Roland-Kerr Further Education College and bids his time while Lestrade and his men set up a perimeter. Once he realizes the gun is a fake, he relaxes even more, and taunts Jeff about the circumstances leading up to his new career as a serial killer (Sherlock sincerely hopes that once the man dies he never sees him again). The idea of someone else taking an interest in him is intriguing which he files away for further consideration, and after deciding enough time has passed, gets up to go. 

"Well, this has been very interesting. You were truly wasted as a cabbie."

"Just before you go, Mr. Holmes, did you figure it out? Which one is the good bottle and which one is the bad bottle? I'd like to know if I could have beaten you," Jeff calls after him.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but John flashes in his mind, and he doesn't slow down.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? You won't be bored with me," Jeff sounds desperate now. 

When Sherlock's almost at the door, Jeff shouts, "Moriarty! The name is Moriarty! Choose a bottle and I'll tell you everything you need to know about your fan. It'll give you something to think about in the afterlife."

Sherlock smirks, turns around, grabs both bottles from the table and smashes them against the far wall. He leans down and whispers, "I look forward to the court case." He ignores the man's anguish and finally makes it out the door, his mind on a Chinese place he has yet to introduce John to.

The court case is everything he hopes for. Halfway through, Jeff's aneurysm catches up with him, and Sherlock watches the man step away from his body and out the door to try and make peace with how he spent his final days.

 

\---

 

At the next crime scene, an apparent murder suicide (Sherlock and the victims share a silent laugh at the stupidity of the police), John examines the bodies while Sherlock tries to separate the numerous tyre treads in the front lawn. Lestrade kneels down next to him, "Is this going to be your new arrangement, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers without looking up, "I finally have someone who will work with me."

"And you swear you're not using again?" Sherlock, though annoyed, can see the concern in Lestrade's eyes and reigns in his temper. John would be proud.

"Yes I promise. John would never stand it."

"Right, then, I'll leave you too it." Lestrade still looks uneasy, but lets it go.

 

\---

 

After Sebastian Wilkes contacts him, the ghosts of Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis pay them a visit and explain their involvement with the Black Lotus. Both profess to have delivered the vases that were expected of them and can't understand why they were killed. It's not until after Sherlock deciphers the graffitis message that Van Coon remembers the jade hair pin he nicked for his girlfriend. By that point, General Shan is gone.

To make up for it, Van Coon tells Sherlock all the rumors floating around about how  _exactly_ Sebastian achieved such a senior position at the bank at such a young age.  Sherlock smiles as he calls in an anonymous tip to the police; it almost makes up for that stupid ketchup comment.

 

\---

 

It is during the case of the "Blind Banker", as John calls it, that they share their first kiss. After their first meeting at Shad Sanderson, the pain of the memories stirred up by Sebastian is eating Sherlock up inside. Once they get back to 221B, Sherlock starts towards the sofa to lose himself in thought and drown out the voices in his head. Suddenly John's arms catch him from behind and pull him into a loose embrace.  He leans up and whispers in Sherlock's ear, "If there was no one shagging you at Uni, then they were sorely missing out." Sherlock laughs at the joke and misses the signals of what John intends to do next. When John's lips brush against his, gentle and loving and light as a prayer, Sherlock revises his belief in God.

 

\---

 

During another case, when Molly comes into the lab, Sherlock deduces that her new boyfriend is hiding the fact that he has a serious pornography addiction. So serious, he frequently calls out of work to peruse his collection, and will never be truly happy with her because he'll constantly be comparing her to the idealized version of female beauty his addiction has left him with.  He refrains from telling her that the stem of this problem is an Oedipus Complex he has been repressing since his mother died suddenly 5 years ago, and that since she'd died, his mother watched over every one of his perverse actions.  

Molly looks horrified, completely ignores John in her distress, and runs from the room. John sighs and says, "That wasn't very nice Sherlock."

"Just saving her time, wasn't that kinder? I hardly think he's a suitable mate."

" _Kinder_? No, no Sherlock, that wasn't kind." John stomps out of the room and shuts the door with a bit more force than usual.

Sherlock thinks about it, still doesn't see what he did wrong, but assumes it's one of those societal "rules" that John is always going on about but that he has no time for. Sherlock later brings Molly a cup of coffee, and her exuberant response insures that all is forgiven.

When he meets Molly's next boyfriend, and realizes he's gay, he bites his tongue. He later wishes he hadn't.

 

\---

 

Standing over the corpse stuffed in the back of a car, with plane tickets, little biscuits, and branded napkins in his pockets, Sherlock's possible scenarios steadily decrease ( ~~8~~ ~~4~~ ~~2~~ ). For once, the victim isn't being very helpful. "What's he saying?", asks John.

Sherlock's brow creases in frustration, "Makes no sense. He's says he remembers two men talking about how they had to get his body on the plane on time..."

 

\---

 

When John runs his hands over Sherlock's arms, it's with such adoration that Sherlock forgets about the pinpricks which never quite fade away.

 

\---

 

The case in Dartmoor ends well, but starts out as a living nightmare. John leaves Sherlock alone to wander the moor with Henry, and his eyes, which he long ago had learned to stop doubting and start trusting, start to fail him again.  The idea that not only are ghosts possible, but wild super-beasts as well is too much for his brain to process, and in his panic he has something close to a nervous breakdown. At least he's not the only one; when he and John call on Henry the next morning to discuss what what to do next, Henry runs out of the house screaming madly, "It's not just me. IT'S NOT JUST ME!"

 

\---

 

Mycroft watches the surveillance cameras he installed outside the door of 221B and ponders the change in his brother. 

 

\---

 

After a long while, Moriarty makes himself known. Sherlock solves the first two cases relatively quickly. He's happy to finally bring closure to Carl Powers; the little boy had haunted him for most of his childhood, confused about what had happened once he got in the pool. He figures out Raoul de Santos fairly quickly as well (no thanks to Connie Prince herself. The woman is even more self-centered in death). But it all goes wrong when the little old lady tries to describe Moriarty to him. After the blast, and the fallout in the flat, when John can only look at him in disappointment and slowly climbs upstairs to the bedroom he hasn't slept in for months, the old woman visits Sherlock and completes for description. Sherlock has a moment of realization (Jim from IT! Funny how he can pick up gay but not psychopath). He hesitantly goes and lays down next to John on to plan their next move.

"I have to go after him John, I have to. I can beat him," Sherlock says after a time. 

"Why do  _you_ have to beat him? Why can't  _we_ beat him? Or the police? Why can't  _they_ beat him. Why does it just have to be you?" John rolls over to face him and his eyes are desperate.

"It has to be me because he....is me. He's everything I'm afraid I'll someday become."

John reaches out and strokes Sherlock's cheek. "No," he says softly, "No. You're wrong. Maybe at one time, a time long ago and far away you could have been like him. But not now. Now, you're a man who has overcome his past and started to open himself up, just a little bit, to the love in the world around him. You're a man who showed your heart to me and has saved me over and over again. You're a man with an extraordinary gift who uses it to bring justice to those who wouldn't get it other wise. No," and John leaned forward until his lips brushed against Sherlock's ear, "You're nothing like him, and you don't have to do this alone."

Sherlock sets up the meeting at the pool and convinces Moriarty to come out to play.  When they finally meet face to face, after Moriarty gives Sherlock a riveting account of just what exactly he has going on in the big bad world, laser beams fall not across Sherlock's face but his. Mycroft's men had the whole area staked out and moved in the moment Moriarty was done confessing. As he's dragged away, Moriarty' yells, "This isn't over, Sherlock! I'll burn the heart out of you yet! I'LL BURN THE HEART OUT OF YOU YET!" Sherlock smiles, knowing that his heart in safe and sound in 221B with a certain army doctor.

When he get's home, he and John wraps themselves tightly around each other, completely and utterly entwined, and Sherlock thinks that finally, finally, he is at home in this world.

 

\---

 

Later, when they're lying contented in each other's arms, Sherlock looks at John and whispers, "Thank you. You're the first person who's ever worried about getting justice for me. I'm not sure where I'd be if we never met. I've always thought myself special because of my abilities, and I still do, but you've showed me a value in the living that I've never taken the time to notice before. I'm rubbish at this, but John, I....I..." Sherlock trails off trying to summon the words.

Without opening his eyes, John smiles at the ceiling and says softly, "Me too."

 

\---

 

The day after the encounter with Moriarty is a year to the day they moved in to 221B. John wakes him with a playful, "Happy Anniversary," and they spend the morning in bed worshipping each other.  By the afternoon, Lestrade has called with a case, and while Sherlock gets ready to go to the lab, he notices John watching him. He knows John has errands that need doing, but at the moment, he seems content to drink in every movement Sherlock makes. Sherlock takes his time, but he really is anxious to start work, and he grabs his coat and scarf and makes to leave. As he's almost out the door, he hears John over his shoulder, "Hey, Sherlock..." As he turns around, he locks eyes with John and sees warmth and affection and just a touch of sadness. Their contact never wavers as John calls out, "You know I love you, right?" Sherlock smiles and says, "And I, you," before finally turning to go.

 

\---

 

Sherlock is completely engrossed in his new case.  A soldier, recently returned from war, went on a rampage and killed his young wife before turning the gun on himself. The man's spirit is in no shape to help, incapable of anything except curling up in a ball in the corner of the lab and moaning in pain, so Sherlock really is on his own. He's so engrossed in the blood analysis, he doesn't even notice Mike Stamford coming into the room. 

"Hello Sherlock," Mike says a little despondently. "What are you working on?"

Sherlock gives him a brief overview of the case, trying to mask his annoyance at the interruption, before saying, "The Army has been testing a new malaria vaccine, the side effects of which, though rare, are enhanced PTSD and violent hallucinations.  They've done a good cover-up job so far, but if this man's blood tests positive for it, they may be responsible for the death of this him and his wife."

"War causes men to do terrible, terrible things," Mike sighs. "That's always apparent, but even more so today."

"Today? Why is today an especially perceptive day for acknowledging the horrors of war?" Sherlock can't help but snort at Mike's sentimentality.

"Well, it's a personal thing really. A year ago today I found out what happened to a friend of mine from Barts, John, who served in Afghanis-"

"John?" Sherlock looks up for the first time in the conversation.

"Yeah, John. John Watson. He was a bloody great doctor and an even better soldier from what I hear. A year ago today he was killed in Afghanistan trying to reach a man in his unit who was hurt and out in the open. He died a hero, trying to save the man's life."

Mike looks up into Sherlock's eyes with a sad smile, "I think you would have liked him."

**Author's Note:**

> Even though Sherlock scoffs at it, The Sixth Sense served as a huge inspiration for this story.
> 
> I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and BBC, who in turn are using the brilliant work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as a template. Really, this is Sherlock Holmes fanfiction to the third power.
> 
> Big thanks to Ariane DeVere for her lovely transcripts, which make so much of my writing about Sherlock possible.
> 
> It is also my first stab at fiction; I've been a strictly analytical writer up to this point. I wasn't even planning on this being my first fic, but I saw the prompt and couldn't get it out of my head. Literally, I haven't slept for days.
> 
> This has not been beta-ed or brit-picked, so any errors are my own. I would love love love any and all (respectful) feedback. Also, I'm just sort of figuring out this tagging thing, so if there's anything that should be tagged, but isn't, let me know.
> 
> I'm on tumblr! Check me out at the-navel-treatment (same name, more punctuation!). Come chat anytime. While it's not all Sherlock, it's mostly Sherlock, and my current obsession is the #bowbrella conspiracy.


End file.
